Wanting and Needing
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: Sherlock gets hurt while on a case and John takes care of him. P with some P. Fulfilling a request from StarMaya. Johnlock. It's so fluffy you're gonna die.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**This story was written at the request of StarMaya, which was specifically "Can you do one where Sherlock gets hurt and John is panicked but cares for his boyfriend (Sherlock). Can you make it M?"**

**I hope this was what she wanted it to be, and that everyone else enjoys. This will be two chapters, and the P with some P will be in the second one.**

* * *

John had never experienced a more sobering moment than when he heard Sherlock's bone crack beneath the pressure of his own weight.

They were chasing after a bad guy, their usual pastime for a Friday evening. Some go to the pub. Others run through London after serial killers.

When had John's life turned into fiction?

But anyway, John was ahead of Sherlock for once, because he knew where they were going. John was actually a faster runner when he really put some effort behind it, and when he wasn't forced to follow behind Sherlock because he refused to say where they were going.

But since he was in front, he didn't see what happened. He just heard the sound that he knew quite well. The cracking of a bone. A large one.

John stopped so quickly he was nearly surprised that there was no skidding sound. He ran back over to Sherlock, who was on the ground, trying and failing to keep his cool-calm-collected demeanour. His teeth were gritted, and his breath was coming in short, agitated huffs.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice strained as he tried to look at his left leg. John suspected it was his tibia. "Markson will get away. You've got to run after him. You know where he's headed."

"Sherlock, you're utterly mad if you think I'm leaving you here like this."

"John, you have to go after him!" Sherlock snarled, the injury that was likely causing Sherlock severe pain heightening his emotions.

"No," John said firmly, glaring at his friend as menacingly as he could.

It didn't faze Sherlock, of course. It was likely a dragon couldn't intimidate Sherlock.

"If you don't go, I'll get up and go running right now. So then it will be completely your fault when my injury becomes more severe than it already is."

John wanted to call his bluff, except he knew Sherlock was serious. Well, not that it would really be John's fault that Sherlock's idiotically stubborn, but he still didn't want Sherlock to worsen his injury.

He only considered for another moment.

"Fine, okay, _fine_. But you're staying _right_ _here_ until I come back to get you."

"Yeah, yeah." He rolled his eyes.

"I'm serious, Sherlock. You'll hurt yourself worse if you move. Don't."

"I'm not a child, John," Sherlock muttered.

"Sometimes you need to be spoken to like one," John retorted. "Stay," he added one last time.

Then he sprinted away again. As he ran, he called Lestrade—because he, unlike Sherlock, realised that the police were occasionally helpful when apprehending dangerous criminals. He told Lestrade the address to be at, but he was too out of breath to say much more.

And, imagine this, John showed up to the location and Markson was already getting cuffed.

If Sherlock would just suck up his pride every once in a while, maybe he could have this easy of a time catching criminals too.

Not that John was planning on saying he had help. What Sherlock didn't know would be much better for John, after all. He'd never hear the end of it.

"Where's Sherlock?" asked Greg when he noticed the detective's absence at the scene.

"He got hurt," John replied. "He's probably trying to crawl home as we speak, the bloody idiot."

"Then go get him," Lestrade urged, and John didn't need to be told twice. He jogged back to where Sherlock was…

"Sherlock, that's not where you were before," John said, his voice tired. He was just a few feet away, but John knew it wasn't the same because before Sherlock had been leaning up against some bins and now he was on the opposite wall.

Sherlock didn't bother to argue.

And a moment later, John noticed something else.

Sherlock was now holding his right ankle, when before he had been holding his left.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice rife with irritation. "You tried to walk and hurt yourself, just like I fucking _told_ _you_ you'd do, didn't you?"

Sherlock, probably for the first time in his entire life, looked timid.

John got down on one knee in front of Sherlock, forcing Sherlock's hand away. Sherlock was too sheepish to even complain as John rolled up the right leg of his trousers.

And sure enough, it was visibly swollen. Left leg broken, right ankle sprained.

John could only think one thing.

Sherlock was about to be _miserable_ to be around.

* * *

And John was absolutely right. Sherlock, having both legs injured, could not do a thing on his own. John was sure that if only one leg were injured, or basically any other part of his body, he would have struggled through life, but done everything he always did nonetheless. But he was now incapable of moving around. In fact, he was given a wheelchair when his left leg was casted, but Sherlock refused to be shoved into it.

Which meant he had to hobble against John's side, wincing as he walked on his sprained ankle, all the way back to the flat. Since there was so much more dignity in that, of course. It was utterly ridiculous.

"You're really, _really_ stupid, you know that?" John scolded in the cab. "If you'd have just waited for me, you could be respectably limping. But now you won't be able to move at all until that sprain heals up."

Sherlock just pouted out the window, refusing to say anything because he knew that, for once, John had been right and Sherlock had been wrong.

They got home from him getting one leg casted and John immediately wrapped up the sprained ankle in a bandage. Sherlock still just sat there with his arms crossed, having a silent temper tantrum like a little boy. John figured Sherlock was mad at his own body. His transport had failed him. Because what good was his body if it didn't function when he needed it to?

John was waiting for the tantrum to stop being silent. Because eventually it wouldn't be. It was only a matter of time.

And that time came two days after his leg was casted. After two days of utter silence, which were actually quite relaxing for John, it began as John knew it would. John was making tea at the time.

It started with Sherlock shifting one way, and then grunting in pain. Shifting again, and another sound of discomfort. Then a deep, long-suffering sigh.

Then, finally, "John, I'm an invalid!" Sherlock cried dramatically from the sofa. "Does it always feel like this to be useless?"

John didn't miss the implication in Sherlock's statement. "I don't think I'd know, now would I?" asked John.

"Oh, don't sell yourself short, John. That's one of the few things you _do_ know."

John glared at Sherlock for a long moment. "Fine. Why don't you just take care of yourself, and I'll go stay with Sarah? That sound good?"

Sherlock said nothing until John started to put his jacket on. Then Sherlock turned quickly in his spot on the settee, and John heard him hiss at even that movement in pain. Since he'd injured himself falling, who knew what else was hurt that he was too proud to mention?

"Are you serious?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"Oh yeah, definitely. I mean, I'm so _useless_, I wouldn't do you any good anyhow."

"Oh, come John, don't be so sensitive."

"See you in a few days," John said, going for the door.

"No, John, wait!" Sherlock cried, maybe even surprising himself with the desperation in his voice. "I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry. You happy now? Will you stay?"

Sherlock may have said it grudgingly, but it was better than any other apology John had gotten from his flatmate. Since he'd never gotten one.

"Yeah, fine," John muttered, throwing his jacket back down. "What do you need, princess?"

"I thought you were making tea."

"Yeah," John grumbled, going back over to the kitchen and finishing the tea, which had already been close to done when he threatened to leave. Like he would have actually left. He would have gotten halfway down the stairs before he came back again, because Sherlock would probably just die of dehydration and humiliation if John left him there alone, unable to move.

John brought over the mug and held it out to Sherlock, who just looked at it.

"Take it," said John.

Sherlock didn't take it. He just stared up at John, and it only took him a moment to know what Sherlock was saying with his eyes, since he knew Sherlock quite well.

John was going to have to shove it into Sherlock's hand, because it was far too much work to reach for it.

John, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking another of Sherlock's bones, thrust it into his flatmate's hand, smirking internally when a bit of the scalding water got Sherlock's finger. Sherlock glared for a moment when he got burned, but otherwise just kept on brooding.

"You could say thank you for once," John suggested irritably, one of the things he said frequently. Sherlock always just rolled his eyes or just ignored him all together.

But this time, as John was sitting down in his chair, he heard it.

He thought for a moment he'd imagined it.

"Thank you."

John looked up in surprise, and Sherlock wasn't looking at him, but his face looked… well, it seemed an oxymoron for Sherlock Holmes, but he looked… humbled. Like he'd never been so dependent on another person before. And probably he hadn't.

"You're welcome," John replied, surprised enough by this small act of gratefulness that he couldn't even be irritated anymore. "Are you hungry?"

Sherlock shrugged.

John knew in that moment that he was spending far too much time around Sherlock, because he accidentally made a deduction. And then he said it aloud.

"If you're planning on punishing yourself for being so dumb, that'd just be dumber. People make mistakes."

Sherlock finally met John's eyes, his face cold. "Maybe _you_ do, but _I_ don't."

"Everyone does."

"Not me."

"Well that's too bad," John replied.

Sherlock's face changed in a second, going from angry to confused.

"Too bad?"

"To err is human," quoted John. "And sometimes it's nice to remember that you're human."

"Why would you want me to be human? Why would you want anyone to be human? Humans are stupid, insignificant—"

"Loving, creative, compassionate," John cut off. "The reason human greatness is so amazing is because humans are so capable of being horrible. So when they do something right for once, it's really something to be proud of. But you… you're just a robot sometimes. Sure, you're not stupid or insignificant, but does that mean you can't be loving or compassionate either? I'd take stupid in order to get love any day."

Sherlock was looking at John in a way he often did: like John was some kind of alien.

"Some days," said Sherlock, "I think I've completely figured you out. And then other times you say things and I realise that you're still a mystery to me."

"Well people are known to be unpredictable at times."

"No, that's exactly it," said Sherlock. "People are hardly ever unpredictable. If they were, my methods wouldn't work, because they're based on assumptions of what people are, and what they aren't, and if people deter too much from expectation, then my assumptions will be utterly incorrect. But you… you're unpredictable quite frequently. Which makes me wonder what manner of creature you truly are."

So John liked Sherlock for what was human about him, and Sherlock liked John for what was inhuman about him.

What a strange thing that was.

It was then that John had a strange moment of impulse. Those came to him at times, and it was almost impossible to ignore.

His impulse was to surprise Sherlock again. To do something his detective could never expect.

So he did the first thing that came to mind. In fact, his body seemed to act without the permission of his brain at all.

He stood up. Sherlock's eyes followed the movement. Sherlock's eyes followed wherever John went, really. He didn't normally think about it much, because he was so used to those cool, keen blue eyes piercing into him.

In fact, not only used to it. He kind of enjoyed it.

Now, the gaze became even more intense than ever, and John felt a rush of adrenaline, like Sherlock was something dangerous. Like having those eyes trained on him was a brand new type of adventure. He'd known for ages he was addicted to Sherlock, because with Sherlock came constant adventure and excitement.

But what if John was addicted to just Sherlock himself? Maybe he needed Sherlock himself even more than he needed the chase.

He'd never even considered it.

It all went through his head in a short moment, feeling like it hit him like bus, but not making him react at all physically.

His body was still ready to act without waiting for him to catch up.

So he went forward, and Sherlock was still staring. His gaze cursory, like he was trying to figure out what John might to next.

And John carefully put himself in Sherlock's lap, straddling him. Making sure none of his weight was on the other man. Sherlock's eyes had gone wide, the look so satisfying to John that he couldn't keep himself from smirking.

"John, what're you—" Sherlock began.

But he couldn't finish.

Because a moment later, John's lips were on Sherlock's.

John was so surprised with himself that he didn't even know what to think of the kiss. He didn't think anything at all. He just did it, like kissing Sherlock was his base instinct.

An infinite second passed before John backed away.

Sherlock looked mildly petrified, and John was still feeling proud of himself.

"Was that unpredictable?" asked John. He was grinning… for a moment. But Sherlock's expression didn't change. He didn't speak. John's grin slipped away, and finally his brain had truly caught up to what he'd just done.

Was he completely fucking mental? He could have just ruined his friendship with Sherlock forever. What the hell was he thinking? He was ready to apologise profusely, ready to panic because surely Sherlock was going to ask him to leave, was never going to want to talk to him again…

Then Sherlock's hand flashed through the air, landing firmly on the back of John's neck and holding his head firmly in place, so John wouldn't be able to move away without a great deal of effort. Now John was the one with eyes wide with surprise.

Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes boring into him more powerfully than ever before.

"John. Do that again."

John's breath caught in his throat. "What?" he asked quietly, suddenly more aware of the cool hand clamped to the back of his neck, the fingertips digging into his scalp desperately. He didn't realise until then that the hand was not, in fact, holding him in place. It was trying to pull John closer.

"I need you to do that again." Sherlock's voice was clear and calm, speaking slowly as if to make John understand exactly what he wanted.

But no. Not want. _Need_.

And John realised he needed it too.

At the same time, both men surged forward, crushing their lips together. John let his fingers tangle in Sherlock's curls, not letting himself think too much, wonder what the hell was happening. All he knew was that kissing someone had never felt like this before and he wasn't about to stop for anything, especially not for pesky logic, nor for embarrassment.

Then Sherlock hissed again. John sprang up as an automatic reaction. Sherlock glared at his leg like it had personally offended him.

And now that the moment was over, John couldn't bring himself to start it again. Humiliated with himself, he picked up his jacket.

"I dunno about you, but I'm hungry. Is Thai okay?"

"John—" Sherlock muttered, but John didn't wait for a response. In a moment, he was gone.

* * *

**Sorry for the cliffhanger, but the next chapter will be up really soon. **


	2. Chapter 2

**See, I told you, that only took like twenty minutes. Here's the rest. Porn and fluff, basically. **

* * *

Could John actually just sit in the Thai restaurant forever without anyone kicking him out? And if they did kick him out—which, of course, they eventually would—could he just stay at Sarah's forever? And when _she_ kicked him out, could he just live in a fucking alley? Because he was almost convinced that he would rather live as a homeless man for the rest of his life rather than go face what he had just done.

But, even as he thought that, he knew he had to go back. Even if he was petrified to even completely admit to himself that what had just happened wasn't some sort of mad dream, he knew that he couldn't leave Sherlock there alone when he was so helpless.

And then… then there was Sherlock's actual response to what had happened.

He looked scared at first, yes… but then he had looked at him with those eyes like icy flames, demanding John to kiss him again.

And when they did, John wasn't the only one that moved forward. So had Sherlock.

And John wasn't the only one whose lips were moving against the other man's, wasn't the only one with hungry hands running over the body he'd always secretly wanted to explore. Like John's real desires in life had been locked in a box in his mind, and then Sherlock's lips had made the box fling open and reveal that the contents had been a single word, a single idea, a single person.

Sherlock.

And John's fear increased further as he thought all these things, because he realised he couldn't pretend that it hadn't happened.

Because John had wanted it. He didn't know that until it happened, but he'd wanted it.

_Needed_ it.

As he walked back to the flat, he felt like he was in a daze. What was he supposed to say to Sherlock? What had Sherlock already deduced? What did any of this mean for their friendship? Sherlock was married to his work, after all. Not at all interested in any sort of relationship, emotional for physical.

But then what the hell had just happened?

He walked inside 221 and up the stairs as slowly as he could, putting off the inevitable for as long as possible. It had taken him close to an hour to get food when usually there was no reason for it to take longer than ten minutes. He half wanted to wait in the stairwell for another hour or seven, but knew it was time to deal with what had happened.

God, what would Sherlock say? What was he thinking right now? Was John going to walk into the flat just to see Sherlock's disgusted face? Was he going to scold him? Was he going to ignore what had happened all together? Because John wasn't sure he liked that thought either. Having 'what ifs' and 'maybes' floating around them without any resolution—

But all of John's humiliated pondering ceased the moment he walked in the door of the flat.

Because the settee Sherlock had been previously been occupying was now vacant.

"Sherlock?" John called, almost surprised at the amount of panic that had filtered into his voice.

He was met with the reply of dead silence.

Even Sherlock calling back to him and saying he'd broken his other leg, or his head, or anything at all, couldn't have scared him as much as this lack of response had.

Because now John's imagination was going wild, wondering what exactly the quiet meant.

What if Sherlock was incapable of answering? What if he had hurt himself so direly that he wasn't even conscious?

Or maybe he was hiding from John in his room because he didn't want to talk to John and planned to just hide from him for ages.

Or, the worst thought that went through John's head was that Sherlock had been so alarmed by what happened between them that he hobbled out of the flat just to get away from John.

John put the food down in the kitchen. "Sherlock!" he yelled, the quiet flat filling with the _thud_, _thud_, _thud_ of him pounding around, actually running in his haste to find Sherlock, to prove that his assumptions were wrong. That Sherlock was too resilient, too clever to _really_ hurt himself—at least permanently or to the brink of death. That he and Sherlock were too close for their relationship to be damaged that thoroughly. That Sherlock wasn't quite that easy to scare off.

Luckily, his search didn't last very long. John sucked in a relieved breath when he found Sherlock. He was on the ground on his back, staring up at the ceiling with a petulant look on his face. But he looked completely fine, no blood or sign of a new injury. Just that same childish, grumpy face Sherlock often made.

"Why didn't you respond?" John scolded, helping Sherlock into a sitting position as John knelt down in front of him.

Sherlock wasn't saying anything. And John thought at first the look on his face was just the normal indifferent and irritated look of Sherlock Holmes, but then he took a closer look. He was looking angry and sad and even a little vulnerable. Frustrated as always, but not at the general stupidity of the rest of the universe like he might usually be.

And John had a thought. Maybe that face was geared towards him. Maybe Sherlock really had been on the way to his room to ignore John, but then had been unable to get there.

So John finally asked, "Are you cross with me?"

Sherlock still just stared at the ground, and it was making John even more nervous. Was he not speaking to John anymore? But then he said, "I haven't needed help with anything since I was old enough to walk and talk and shit on my own," said Sherlock, his tone of voice drastically different from the way it usually was, full of emotions John hadn't known his flatmate could feel. It shocked John more than he thought it would. "And now, I try to go to the toilet and on the way back to the couch, I fall and can't get back up, and I had to wait forty minutes for you to get back. It's utterly humiliating."

John's very first emotion, though it lasted for only a moment, was relief. Sherlock's distress was caused by the helplessness of his situation, not by John.

Right after that though, he felt deep sympathy for the man that he on some days could call his friend (though today that was in question even more than usual, because 'friend' suddenly didn't seem like the right word). Sherlock didn't know what it was like to depend on someone, and likely that was uncomfortable for him.

"I'm sorry I took so long," was all John could think to say.

"I expected it. You left out of discomfort, not hunger. I knew you would need time. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have waited for your return, but I must admit your kiss left my mind rather muddled."

John didn't expect Sherlock to bring it up again so bluntly, and so soon on top of that. John felt his ears going red, but didn't know what to say.

"I'm… erm… I'm sorry about that too," said John lamely. "That was… really stupid."

"I thought that was the cleverest thing I've ever seen you do."

John gaped at Sherlock. "Sorry, _what_?"

"When you kissed me, the arousal which occurred made hormones secrete into my system that temporarily distracted me from both my irritation and my pain. Until I accidentally moved my leg enough to cause pain that the hormones couldn't mask, I was feeling quite content."

John found that this whole speech narrowed down into one single word that Sherlock had said. The only one that mattered.

Arousal.

Sherlock had just admitted that John kissing him had caused him to become aroused.

"Probably that wasn't your intention," Sherlock continued, "but I'm feeling generous right now, so I'll pretend it was deliberate."

It was right about then when John became just a little… disappointed.

_I need you to do that again._ That had only been because Sherlock had been in pain and the kissing helped that to be dulled. John wasn't sure why it mattered. It's not like he honestly expected Sherlock to want to kiss him.

Or that John even _wanted_ to kiss him again. No, definitely not…

Even though his lips had tasted so perfect, and fit against his like they'd belonged together all along. Even though kissing Sherlock had been ten times better than John had ever imagined—

Not that John had ever _imagined_ kissing Sherlock.

Well, other than in strange dreams…

But no. John needed to stop thinking about this. It didn't matter. It was all just delusional fantasies. What was real was the fact that his friend needed him, and John had been doing a real shit job taking care of him so far, considering he disappeared for so long that Sherlock was left on the ground for the better part of an hour.

Finally, John met Sherlock's eyes again. And Sherlock was frowning at him, obviously trying to read him. John shuddered to think what Sherlock saw, and hoped that it wasn't the insane, inexplicably disappointed man that he felt like on the inside.

John stood up, and he helped Sherlock up as well. "Come on," he said, "let's get you back to the settee. I can make you a new cuppa, since yours probably went cold."

"John—" Sherlock started, but again John didn't let him finish.

"I'm really sorry I left you here alone. I won't do it again." He was helping Sherlock down onto the settee once more.

"_John_—"

"That was so stupid of me. But I can put some of the takeaway on a plate for you and we can—"

"JOHN!"

John was startled into shutting up.

"I think you misunderstood me," Sherlock said.

"I did?" asked John.

"I didn't only enjoy you kissing me because it dulled the pain, John."

John, still having utterly no idea what to say, planned to just walk into the kitchen, letting the conversation hang in the air, unfinished, but then Sherlock for the second time that night grabbed John from behind the neck, forcing him to look into those pale eyes.

"John, you aren't listening."

"You just aren't making any sense," John replied.

"I'm not? What exactly doesn't make sense about what I've said thus far, in your opinion?"

"You…" John muttered. "I dunno, you don't _get_ aroused. You don't kiss _anyone_, and if you did, you wouldn't enjoy it. That's what's not making sense."

"Then let me clear up the confusion. Just because I have never been aroused does not mean I am not capable. Just because I had never kissed anyone before today does not imply that I would never have the experience in my life. And saying I wouldn't enjoy it was only speculation on both our parts. But you must know the same as I that a hypothesis, even one of mine, is not _always_ correct."

"So you're saying… you genuinely enjoyed kissing me."

"You're slower than usual today," said Sherlock.

John ignored that. "Then… what the hell is happening here?"

"For once, I'm not actually completely sure. But I do have a plausible experiment that could answer the question for us."

John was always wary of the word 'experiment' when it was uttered by Sherlock, but still prompted hesitantly, "Which involves…?"

"Which involves you coming over here and kissing me again right this instant, because I'm honestly having an amazingly difficult time looking at anything but your lips as you talk right now."

John's heart was pounding now, and he was nervous and way too excited by the thought of kissing the detective again.

_His_ detective.

Without telling himself to, he found himself inching closer to Sherlock, his gaze shifting from his eyes to his lips. Which were just slightly parted, because Sherlock's breathing was just a little less relaxed than usual.

Maybe John would have chickened out, except that Sherlock's eyes were so intense, and they were more than desirous—they were commanding. It wasn't that he wanted John to kiss him. It's that he _needed_ him to. Just like before.

And how could John say no to that?

Before John consciously decided what to do, his hands were on either side of Sherlock's face and John's mouth was back on his flatmate's, his tongue plunging into the other man's mouth. John couldn't feel unsure about it, because the next moment Sherlock's tongue was tangling with his, his arms winding around John's body. John was still trying to be careful of Sherlock's injuries, but he was quickly getting lost in the moment.

So lost that he was running fumbling fingers over the edges of Sherlock's blue dressing gown, longing so much to remove it, and his teeth were just barely snagging on Sherlock's lip, making him give a quiet groan.

They parted for a moment—maybe to breathe, but John wasn't quite sure why _that_ was necessary—and Sherlock quickly said, "Bedroom."

More commands. And John didn't mind being bossed around, if only just in this case. John nodded, and he transitioned in less than a moment back into his protective mode, being as careful as he could as he helped Sherlock to his bedroom. John had only seen Sherlock's bedroom a few times, as usually John was not allowed inside, so it was strange to him that he was not only being allowed to glance inside, but that in a moment he might even be under Sherlock's sheets.

John put Sherlock down on his bed, and Sherlock winced at some jolt to one of his legs.

John became concerned quickly. "Sherlock, you're hurt. We can't—"

Sherlock grabbed at the back of John's head and kissed him once more, apparently not wanting to allow for any talk.

But this time John wouldn't be silenced by the detective.

"Sherlock," John said when he could wrench his face away, "you could hurt yourself worse."

"I'll be fine, John," said Sherlock impatiently.

"And I'll still be here a week from now, and two weeks from now, and a year from now. There's no reason this _has_ to happen now."

"John," Sherlock said in a soft whisper. "I understand that you are being considerate of my injuries, but I would be in less pain if you would give up this argument and do what we both want."

John considered these words, and the tightness of his pants showed that he wanted to give up the argument just as much as Sherlock wanted him to… but one thought came to mind to stay his hands. A similar thought to one he already had that day.

"Do you only want to do this so the pain goes away?"

"Admittedly, yes," Sherlock said. John only had a moment to feel another mad stab of disappointment before Sherlock smirked. "But not the pain in my legs."

John met Sherlock's eyes. "What?" he asked quietly, as if this conversation was forbidden and he had to hide it from everyone, maybe even himself.

"John… I've been wanting you for a long time. I hesitated to admit it even to myself, and I ignored it pointedly… but then you kissed me, and I can't ignore it any longer. And I fear that I will wake up tomorrow and I'll try to tell you none of it mattered… but not if we find out exactly what this is _right_ _now_. This is… a time sensitive experiment. The longer I wait, the more I will question if this is the thing I should do. So do it _now_, John. So I won't lose my courage."

It was so strange, hearing these words coming out of Sherlock's mouth. Not that he was comparing it to an experiment, that was normal, but talking of secret longings and of courage… John was seeing another part of Sherlock that he never knew existed. And it seemed amazingly similar to how he was feeling about this. Would he lose his courage if they waited? Would they try to forget the kiss ever happened?

And John really couldn't risk that.

So without any more argument, John was hovering over Sherlock, careful not to hurt him, and kissed him, more sweetness there than before, but also more heat.

It was an interesting business, with John half losing himself to the desire, but also paying very close attention to the man beneath him, so afraid of hurting him. He was in John's care, and even if this was part of caring, he would feel horrible if he hurt his detective in the process.

But somehow John managed to take of Sherlock's pyjamas without any incident, and John's oatmeal jumper and jeans joined the dressing gown and grey tee shirt and cotton trousers in pools on the floor.

John could admit to himself now that he'd imagined more than once what Sherlock's body might look and feel like. Like many things with his flatmate, it was almost inhuman, so smooth it seemed impossible, so pale that it was close to the colour of paper. Cooler than skin usually was, but Sherlock's lips were hot, and John's hands tingled where they ran against Sherlock's skin like there was electricity running between them. It was so unreal, the feel of the other man, but it was more amazing that he was touching John back, that he was just as enthusiastic, gripping John tight with slightly cold hands. John wondered vaguely if that meant that Sherlock was colder than average or if John was actually warmer than average. Maybe it was both.

During all this, John wondered how this could really work. Since he was admitting his fantasies now, he'd had many ideas of what he and Sherlock's first time might be like, but Sherlock's injuries really hindered any of those ideas. John decided that the only logical way to do this without Sherlock being hurt was to keep Sherlock in exactly the position he already was in, lying on his back with his legs utterly stationary, and that ruled out any ideas of actual penetration. And John himself wasn't comfortable with the idea of taking that role in the encounter either. John thought all these things quickly, working through it as fast as he could as his hands explored Sherlock. Before he actually meant to, he found his fingers running beneath the waistband of Sherlock's pants, and Sherlock actually shivered beneath him. That took away any of John's fears and he gripped Sherlock's cock in his hand. Sherlock shuttered in a gasp at the touch, and his eyes were wide with what John was almost sure was fear. But how could Sherlock Holmes, of all people, feel both longing and fear in the same day? John had meant it when he said that his favourite aspects of Sherlock were the things that made him human, but that didn't mean he saw these things frequently. But today… Sherlock seemed just like any other person.

"John," Sherlock said shakily. "I… I don't…"

John saw the signs that Sherlock was going to start panicking.

"I w—want this, I do," he continued, "but… I…" He looked so scared that John felt a moment of reservation. Should he stop?

But then he thought about Sherlock, about what he knew about him. John then decided that stopping wasn't the way to go at all.

So he kept his hand in place on Sherlock's erection, but raised his other and put it on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, I'm right here. It's just me. The one who always takes care of you. This isn't any different. I'd never let anything happen to you. You know that, right?"

Sherlock, after a moment, nodded—his eyes still wide and looking somewhat like a child, but still somehow looking more determined. It made warmth blossom in John's chest. Sherlock trusted him.

"You're okay?" John asked softly.

Sherlock nodded again, swallowing visibly. John placed one more kiss on Sherlock's lips, soft and lingering, and when he backed away, Sherlock's eyes were shining in what John had come to recognise as a smile.

John then started to run his hand up and down Sherlock's prick, feeling unsure at first since he'd never done this before (unless doing it to himself counted), but Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut, and his breathing got louder. As his confidence increased, he dared to continue as he pressed kisses to Sherlock's mouth, his neck, his ears. Sherlock's fingers dug hard into John's bare shoulders, and his hips just barely rocked to the rhythm of John's pumping. John became nearly intoxicated by the look of pleasure on Sherlock's face, and in that he found the nerve to replace his hand with his mouth. Sherlock gasped again, and then groaned, his hands tangling in John's hair.

Sherlock didn't last long after that. John savoured in the helpless sounds coming from Sherlock's mouth, the types of sound he never thought he'd really hear coming from the great Sherlock Holmes.

"_John_…" Sherlock moaned, which made John move his mouth faster, and he wrapped his hand around his own erection, finding it swollen and sensitive, like just the sinful sounds Sherlock was making were enough to bring him to the edge of orgasm. His movements were a little clumsy, as he had never done this before, and he was still trying to be careful of Sherlock's legs, but despite all of that both men were under the impression this was the best sex anyone ever had.

And maybe John would have lasted longer, but for the fact that when Sherlock came, he let out a yell that sounded much like John's name, and it was enough to send him over the edge just a moment later. John couldn't pay attention to the mildly unpleasant taste of Sherlock's come, because he found himself swimming in pleasure, groaning even with his mouth still on Sherlock's penis, as he found his own release.

John sat there for a moment, gathering himself, before releasing his lips from Sherlock and looking up at him. Sherlock's eyes were closed and he was heaving in breath like he had been running for ages. His fingers were still in John's hair, but the grip was loose enough that John was able to move Sherlock's hand away and meet him at the top of the bed, collapsing down like he'd been on the jog too.

John kept looking at Sherlock, waiting for his eyes to open, but Sherlock ended up speaking without opening his eyes.

"I think you could have broken my other leg just now and I wouldn't have even felt it. Hormones are an amazing thing."

"I'd really rather you not get hurt again," John replied.

Sherlock opened his eyes, smiling with his eyes again. "It's sometimes strange to me that you care so much. It still baffles me, even after all this time."

"Well then you should start getting used to it," John responded, "because I'm never going to stop caring about you."

"Even when I annoy you?" asked Sherlock in amusement.

"Even then."

"Even when I tell you to wash my sheets because you ejaculated on them?"

John rolled his eyes. "Even then," he repeated.

"You know, I've never considered before, maybe I don't deserve a friend like you."

"No, you don't," John replied. "But you have me anyway."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up.

"Wait, friend?" John asked. "After _that_?"

"I don't think I'll worry about titles just yet."

"But there will be a title then? You're not going to pretend this didn't happen tomorrow?"

"Oh, certainly not. I admit that I enjoyed that rather more than I expected, and thus I predict I'll be wanting sex many more times in the future."

John looked at the ceiling, suddenly thoughtful.

"Oh, what did I say wrong now?" asked Sherlock in a bored voice.

"Nothing," John said. "I was only wondering… how would you feel about going on… well, a date?"

Sherlock glanced over to him. "A date?"

"I just don't want this to just be sex. Because it isn't for me."

Sherlock met his eyes for a long moment, his face as unreadable as always. "Nor for me," he finally said. "A date then."

"When you can walk again," John added. "Because I'm not dragging you all around the bloody city."

Sherlock gave a real smile, one of the rare ones that made John feel like he was melting. "Agreed."

And both of them, with John's head in Sherlock's shoulder, still carefully avoiding Sherlock's injuries, fell asleep.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed. Please review. : ]**


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